


Glitter

by misslonelyhearts



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Fluff, Glitter, M/M, Silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-21
Updated: 2011-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-27 15:57:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/297563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misslonelyhearts/pseuds/misslonelyhearts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was a prompt given by my tumblr peeps to celebrate my 100th follower.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Glitter

“You’ll want to tell him to be careful with that.  It’s dangerous.”  Serendipity warns Hawke under her breath, and then goes back to composing the list of shady Templars she’s promised him.

Across the room, Fenris shakes a nondescript glass bottle.  And because Serendipity’s quarters are easily the most delightful, the most tasteful, and the cleanest in the Rose, Hawke is suddenly curious about this unexpected element.

“What is it?”  His chin comes out of the cup of his hand.  He watches Fenris over her shoulder as he tests the stopper, tipping the bottle this way and that, inspecting the bottom.  The warrior’s unselfconscious examination of the object gives Hawke a familiar flush.  He isn’t often adorable, this collection of scars and brood barely contained within spiked leather.  But when he is . . .the champion is debilitated by it.

Serendipity finally answers, though she doesn’t look up from the page, only continues scribbling.

“It’s glitter dust.  A gift from an admirer.”  A smile swerves across her lips, but she’s still writing, and pauses to bite the quill lightly.  “She said an elf who sparkles is the best kind of irresistible.”

“Sparkles?”

“Yes, sweetness.  Sparkles.  Shimmers.  _Glows_.”  She sighs and looks over at Fenris. “Though I hear he does that already.”

Hawke doesn’t answer.  The tilt of Serendipity’s head, the drift of her eyes over the other’s back, will surely precede a crafty compliment. And before either of them can shift the conversation from a shared appreciation of Fenris’ rear. . .the stopper slips from the upended bottle, held aloft so that the elf could watch the light pass through it, and bounces on the elven nose.  Followed by a sparkling cloud of dust that envelopes him instantly.

Framed in the sunny window, the warrior looks for all the world like a glimmering sprite bathed in the stuff of dreams.  Except for the vicious scowl crawling over his face.  The expression, Hawke thinks, makes the whole picture painfully charming.  From the tip of his head, spreading over every inch of skin, and coating both metal and leather, the glitter makes Fenris. . .well, irresistible.

“Oh, you’ve done it now, you beast!”  Serendipity rises with mock irritation before succumbing to giggles behind her hand.

But Hawke is up too, moving around the table toward Fenris with single-minded strides. 

“Don’t even think about it.” Comes the warning from lips that shine with the delicate dust.  And both black eyebrows draw together helplessly as more glitter drifts down from the hair in his face.  “Vishante!”

The mage whirls on Serendipity, and the vivid pictures he’s creating around Fenris’ shimmering figure lend his voice, and his face he’d wager, an edge of lunacy.

“I’m terribly sorry, love, but I’m going to have to borrow your room for a moment.”  He takes her shoulder, turns her a little roughly, and propels her out of her own chambers. “Or a week.”

She barks in surprise, laughing, and then drawls through the crack of the door before it closes.  “Just so you know. . .it’s edible.  Ta!”

There’s a click, and he won’t remember, later, how he managed to lock the door in his fever before leaping across the room, pastel carpet a blur beneath his boots. 

“Hawke.  This isn’t the place.”  The elf is clearly torn, his scowl swept aside by the power of Hawke’s enthusiasm, and the persuasion that the champion seems to wield as easily as a fireball. An echo of feral grins, and the creaking tease of leather, rolls between them like answering ripples in a too-small pond.  Fenris lowers his head, trying to hide how he licks the glitter from his lip.

 “This is the _best_ place.” Hawke flips his buckle open one-handed.

“Your tastes are strange.” Wicked gauntlets clack as Fenris bites open the stays and shucks them off beside his thighs. 

There’s no end to how badly he needs to cover the elf with more than the heat of his gaze.  For the next few moments, however, the game is about this loss of armor.  And it’s all he can do not to throw himself into the warrior’s knees and bury his face against that firm stomach.

“Stranger every day.” The coat whips away from broad shoulders, puddling around Hawke’s feet.  “You love it.”

“Agreed on the first.”  He nods his white head, the prismatic glitter dancing off to float around his spikes.  But as he releases the buckles on his breastplate, one-by-one, his eyes never stumble from Hawke’s.

“And the second?”  The champion’s hand, fingertips scorched and bandaged, feathers across the front of his own breeches, and stops to squeeze the rigid line forming there. Fenris lifts an eyebrow at the mage’s gesture.

“Perhaps.”  And the breastplate falls a moment behind the sound of Hawke’s feet clomping over Serendipity’s fine rug.

Fenris feints away from the first lunge, leaving a shimmering streak of glitter in his wake.  It catches sunlight like a tracery from a Fade dream, and he lowers his shoulder, bracing for a tackle Hawke can’t really deliver.  The elf sidesteps, gripping a wrist as he turns, and pushes the larger man up and over onto the bed.  Both go willingly, bonelessly, into a less vertical stance once the mattress catches them.

“Why this . . .glitter?  I fail to see the appeal.”

Hawke turns beneath Fenris, twisting the coverlet, and reaches for a kiss.  But the elf holds his lips back, keeps his head above influence, waiting for a response.  And the only explanation Hawke can give, because he’s tired of coming up with new ways to say _if you could only know you the way I do_ , is to rake his hands up through the thickness of white hair and tousle it. Instantly, the delicate dust showers him.  He can feel it alighting on his nose, his lips, and his eyebrows. 

And the mage gets a precious few heartbeats during which to admire the transformation on the warrior’s face as he takes in the effect of the glitter. The crinkles of his forehead shift, the bow-curve mouth softens from its combative set to something nearer delight. Why glitter?  Because everything sparkles like handfuls of starlight. Like the snow at dawn. Like the jolt of heat passing from green eyes to golden ones.

When those scant heartbeats pass, Fenris is a tumult of motion.  They surge together, hips meeting and falling apart as Fenris fights to press and drag the hidden length of his cock against Hawke’s laces.  Lips descend on him, unsheathing a needy groan, and Hawke shares the startling flavor of sweetness, honey or sugar, with a backbite of cinnamon.

“Maker, you taste like-“

“ _Cassia!_ ” Fenris gasps into his mouth, blinking.  He pulls back, still bucking fervently, eyes closed against the flavor of a memory, and gives Hawke such a wistful moan that the mage can only urge him closer with a hand at his shoulder. He ducks beneath Hawke’s beard to whimper lost words, ancient-sounding things between the wet sounds of suckling.  A hand leaves the mattress beside his head, and the mage feels his laces give.  He writhes free of his breeches, bumping the sweat-sticky skin of his cock against the back of the warrior’s knuckles where his fingers jerk down the waistband of his leggings. 

Fenris positions himself higher, settling over the larger man to match rhythm and size, to match weight and tang, to come up with the symmetry of their need. Bracing with his knees wide, and his free arm planted deep in Serendipity’s featherbed, he licks his grip-worn palm and wraps it around them both, smiling briefly into Hawke’s eyes

There’s no sweet moment of sighs and adoration, no further murmurs against the secret spot behind the ear. And neither wants any more than this now.  The taste of cinnamon, and sparkles that catch light even in the dark crawlspaces of one’s heart.  There’s only cheek against cheek, calling out the end of each thrust.  And rough, open kisses soothed with yet more glitter dust.

Hawke pushes up, hips and chest lurching one after another.  He clutches brocade and a leather-clad hip with wild hands, and dimly reminds himself to inquire about the glitter more fully at some later date. For the moment, though, he glides within that grip, cockhead slipping along, trapped and running sideways in the beguiling space between Fenris’ dick and the hot curve of his hand. 

“Fen.  Oh, Maker _damn!_ ”

 At the sound of his name, the elf pistons feverishly. He goes fully quick in all the places Hawke wants him, needs him, to be merciless and slow.  And so they knock over, coming too soon, Hawke first with the elf close behind, and their ragged cries dwindle to shimmery, glitter-dusted chuckling.  Mouth to chest.  Bearded chin on sparkling hair.

Fenris drops to the bed after reaching for a languid kiss. And before he can roll away, Hawke catches his hand.  Black eyebrows, still twinkling with a faint trace of dust, shoot to the top of his forehead as the mage licks each fingertip, each knuckle, loving the savory spend, mixed with sweet, on the elf’s skin.  Fenris offers silence and a bewildered stare as Hawke continues by lapping a trail along the soft, inner part of his elbow.

“Strange tastes.”  He mutters finally, mouth curving around the depth of his voice.  Hawke nods, but his only response is to lower his lips over Fenris, and let the warrior decide for himself just how strange it is.


End file.
